"Someone wrote my name on the backs of all the pieces of Hogwarts parchment," Harry says as he enters the Slytherin common room. Dozens of his fellow Slytherins are settled around the room, and all of their eyes are on him, their expressions serious. The younger children - the first and second years - don't look like they have the best grasp of what's going on, but they look worried nonetheless, and the solemn expressions of the seventh years only compounds Harry's lingering anxiety. "Invisible ink - goblin stuff."

"You'd think you'd be dead at this point," says Francis Drummond, his chin on his hand as he looks at Harry. "In some ways, we could say you're doing quite well." The sardonic, slightly depressed phrasing makes laughter ring around the room, and Harry chuckles a little, shoving the older boy in the back of the shoulder. There's talk back and forth for a while - Harry explains that he and Cedric will be joint Champions, working together in the tasks, and it's met with mixed approval and irritation on Harry's behalf.

He's allowed to head off soon enough, though, and Draco walks with him to the dormitory.

Harry flops back onto his mattress, watching as Draco combs his hair, and says, "You think the Hufflepuffs will hate me?" Cedric is a good man, but Harry had seen some of the glares the Hufflepuffs had sent his way as he'd walked up to the trophy room, and he considers them now with a sinking feeling. It's not as if Harry has close working relationships with the Hufflepuffs as it is, but they barely ever get any glory to themselves, and he doesn't really want to have to deal with their ire.

"Probably," Draco says, tossing his head and sneering. "As if their opinions matter. Did Sirius say what Father said?"

"No, actually," Harry says. "Remus is sick - he's been making him soup." Draco glances at Harry, seeming impressed. Given Lucius Malfoy's general focus on food, Harry can only assume it's some kind of compliment in Draco's eyes.

"It's good, his chicken soup. There are all sorts of ingredients in it that invigorate you," he says, "I used to feign illness when I was eight or nine just so he'd make me some." Harry laughs, kicking off his boots and lying down properly in bed. He'll get up to change in a few moments, but for the time being he doesn't really want to go to the effort of actually moving. "I'm sure he'll make you some when this competition nearly kills you."

"I hope so," Harry says lightly. "I'm hearing good things." Draco smirks at him, and Harry turns away as he begins to get changed for bed, reaching for a book from his shelf. He feels wide-awake, and he knows he won't be able to sleep for a while yet. He grasps at an as-yet untouched book called An Eye Into The Mind: The History of Legilimency, setting it on his pillow before reaching for his pyjamas.

He can always close his curtains, so it's not like Draco can complain about the light.

---

Harry stands quietly in the empty room with Cedric Diggory, his wand in hand. They're waiting for Fleur and Krum to come up for the Wand Weighing ceremony, and for the time being it's just them and Professor Sprout, who'd come to collect them. She's looking at Harry with a little sympathy on her face, and Harry breathes in slowly, exhaling with the same diminished speed. He needs to be calm, and he doesn't want to panic here.

"I'm sorry about this," Harry murmurs, and Cedric looks down at him, surprised.

"What've you got to be sorry for?" he asks, expression serious. "It's not your fault, Harry - we can work together, alright? And we'll win." Cedric's brightness and utter sincerity is, if Harry is honest, mildly off-putting: he's used to other Slytherins and their dry, sharp-minded humour, and the Hufflepuff intensity is mostly unfamiliar to him. Nonetheless, Cedric's general demeanour is endearing, and despite his oddity Harry likes the other boy.

The door opens, and Harry glances back. Fleur comes into the room with her hips swaying, and she airily ignores the desperate, hungry gaze of the bearded photographer that follows her inside. Madame Maxime stands between them immediately, setting her gigantic hand on one of the part-Veela's dainty shoulders, and Harry frowns at the photographer as he aims his camera at Harry, letting out a flash.

"Bozo, over here!" says a terribly-dressed woman with draconically long, green fingernails. She meets Harry's gaze, and she's obviously thinking he'll look away, but he doesn't. "Harry Potter, isn't it?" she says brightly. "I'm-"

"Rita Skeeter," Harry finishes for her. "Yeah, I know who you are." He's seen her name more and more in the Daily Prophet over the past few years - her articles are normally dripping with inflammatory imagery, and he doesn't really like their focus on stirring up controversy, but he knows that Rita Skeeter is the idol of Romilda Vane in the year below.

"Oh, good!" Skeeter says, clapping her hands together with a disconcerting click of her claws, ignoring Harry's lacking enthusiasm.

"Morning, Viktor," Harry says when Krum enters the room, and the other boy gives him a small nod of his head. Harry is unsure if the two of them are developing a rapport or not - Viktor's general lack of verbal input makes it difficult to tell. Karkaroff opens his mouth to bark something, but when he sees Bozo's camera, he quiets himself. Ludo Bagman accompanies a familiar, white-haired old man with disturbingly bright eyes, and Harry offers Ollivander a small, polite smile.

The Wand Weighing isn't nearly as complicated as Harry had expected - it goes simply as Ollivander tests each with a few simple charms, and as Fleur does a small interview with Rita Skeeter to the side of the room and Bagman talks excitedly to Krum and Cedric about Quidditch, Harry stands beside Ollivander and looks curiously at the old man. He isn't sure whether he can leave just yet, as Skeeter hasn't started her interview with Cedric or Harry yet, and so he's left awkwardly standing.

"Do you have an assistant or something holding the shop?" Harry asks, feeling the need to make some kind of conversation, and Ollivander looks down at him, seeming surprised by the question. The old man's dry, wrinkled lips twitch in something like amusement, and he shakes his head.

"I have no assistant, Mr Potter," Ollivander says in his strange, quiet voice. "The shop is closed for the day. When I return, the walls will thrum." Harry furrows his brow slightly, and Ollivander quickly explains, "Wands dislike to be left with no magic about them. An unused wand is an unhappy one."

"But they're not- they're not sentient," Harry says, tilting his head slightly to the side.

"Of course not," Ollivander agrees immediately, and Harry feels the same uncertainty he usually does when he's been sent a letter by Xenophilius Lovegood: he feels like he lacks the necessary footing in this conversation, and isn't entirely sure where it's leading. Vaguely, he wonders if the Ollivander and Lovegood family trees are linked. "The nature of magic, Mr Potter, is to flow. The nature of a wand, however, is to cast. They wait to be used, settled on the shelves, and pray their owner will come along soon." Ollivander widens his eyes, shifting his silver eyebrows.

"Is it hard? Making wands?"

"No," Ollivander answers smoothly. "It's easy. Though at many times, it is impossible. Wand-making is a delicate science, where magic, craft and comprehension must each be balanced: one uses the correct wood, the correct core, and one channels magic into the wands themselves." Despite himself, Harry is interested, and he watches Ollivander's face as he speaks: the old man, seeming to enjoy a focus on his work, continues. "It is a very ancient craft, Mr Potter, that requires both exactitude and luck in equal measure."

"You've never taken an apprentice?" Harry asks, and Ollivander gives a small, short shake of his head. "Why not?" Ollivander smiles down at Harry, the expression making his old face appear even more ancient. Ollivander leans in, and the smell of wood-shavings and ozone clings to his silver robes: Harry wonders if he could pursue wand-making, one day. Could he be like Ollivander, a bizarre genius? He doubts it.

"The wand chooses the wizard, Mr Potter," Ollivander murmurs as if it's a terrible secret, and then adds, "But so too does the wand-maker." Ollivander abruptly stands straight, and Harry opens his mouth as the man walks away, patting Bagman's shoulder, but he doesn't know what he'd want to say to bring the older wizard back, or even if he'd want to.

He elects to stay silent.

"Harry!" Skeeter says, putting her hand on his shoulder; through the fabric of his robes, her nails dig into his shoulder. "Why don't we go have a little interview in there?" Harry glances to the door she points to, and he shakes his head.

"In a broom cupboard? I think I'm fine," Harry retorts, twisting his arm from her grip, and she presses her lips together.

"Well, out here, then. What do you think your parents would say about this occasion, if they were alive?"

"They'd probably say someone has it in for me," Harry says dryly.

"Why did you put your name in the Goblet?"

"I didn't." Levitating in the air beside her, Rita Skeeter's venomously green quill moves quickly over her notebook's page, and Harry grabs for it, scanning the page. Tears shining in his eyes, the interloping Faux Champion lies once more, leaving this reporter- Harry doesn't read any more of it: he laughs, incredulously, and tears off the page, ripping it into pieces. When he looks at Skeeter's face, her expression is a parody of innocence, and he clucks his tongue, shaking his head. "Actually, for the afternoon, Ma'am, you can just take a no comment from me." The angry flush that comes to Skeeter's cheeks is barely visible under the red powder already caked on the skin, and she presses her lips as tightly together as possible. By no means does he want to be the focus of some sensational article, and so he leaves quickly, running quickly down the corridors to catch the start of his Ancient Runes class.

He's not missing another lesson today because of this stupid competition, and by no means is he going to waste any more time on Rita Skeeter.

---

INTERLOPING BOY WHO LIVED STEALS SPOTLIGHT

Harry spends much of breakfast the next morning with his forehead pressed against the surface of the Gryffindor breakfast table. Hermione sits beside him, scanning the article and frowning at its contents. She runs her hand through her hair, and says, "It's not that bad."

"Isn't it?"

"Well, she does call you attention-seeking, stupid, witless, selfish and an interloping snake," Hermione says. "But she also said you had nice hair and that you were dressed well."

"Well," Harry mutters. "So long as she liked my hair." He looks at Hermione as she sighs, shaking her head and frowning down at the page. The interviews of the other Champions had been given a half-page inside the Prophet - the front page is all Harry and his terrible, traitorous ways. "I tried writing Yolanda Hartbrook last night - she writes for the Prophet a fair bit, but she wrote me back this morning and said she's not allowed to do anything on the Triwizard Tournament. The head reporter on it is Skeeter, and she won't let anyone else get in on the action."

"She's probably going to keep on you," Hermione murmurs, "I've seen a lot more Prophets than usual this morning. I can't believe she can do this - it's all lies, and she's just made half of it up."

"It's not like there's a fair press authority in the wizarding world, Hermione," Harry says. "Else the Quibbler wouldn't exist." Hermione huffs, looking angry, and the two of them look up as Fred and George come over.

"Interloper!" they yell together, pointing their fingers at Harry, and he laughs sarcastically at them, letting out three forced "Haha!"s.

"Get back at her," Fred says immediately as he straddles the bench. "Do an interview with somewhere else."

"Like who?" Harry asks. "The Owl Gazette isn't going to be that interested, and-"

"Oh, Harry," George says, shaking his head and admonishing him with a kipper. "You sweet, stupid boy. Stop thinking about newspapers. Write Witch Weekly or Wizard's Staff - not a paper, a magazine. Pose naked for them and tell them all your troubles: you'll get a pretty penny for it, and you can drop in a word about Weasley's Wizard Wheezes."

"We'll give you a Skiving Snackbox to pose with over your todger," Fred says wisely, and Harry snorts, but the idea isn't actually stupid. As light as George's tone is, Harry can see the thought is posed in all seriousness, and the thoughts click in Harry's mind.

"Hey, Harry," Cedric says, putting his hands on George and Fred's shoulders and leaning on them as he looks at Harry. Fred seems mildly annoyed, but George pats Cedric's hand affectionately, obviously amused. "I just wanted to apologize - I didn't say anything about you for Skeeter, and-"

"Don't worry," Harry says. "There's a way you can make it up to me."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Harry nods his head as he stands, coming around the table and gesturing for Cedric to follow him. "We just need to grab Fleur and Viktor."

"Both of them seems a bit ambitious," George says. "Neither of them are really in your league, mate."

"Shut up, George," Harry says. "I'll let you know how it goes."